What do Andrea Bocelli’s rendition of Amazing Grace, a commercial for Proactiv, a treadmill, the Stylistics, a peach raspberry yogurt parfait from Starbucks, loneliness, and David Bianculli have in common? They all contributed to the constellation of experiences I had in the days leading up to January 1, 2013, and they served to remind me that my life is nonsensical unless there is something to give shape to its seeming randomness. Although I am persuaded that, in the end, nothing can confer meaningful purpose unless it is somehow connected to that which is higher, finer, and infinitely more dimensional than my smallest of selves, I nevertheless struggle with an intellect and an intellectual tradition that mocks me for believing in God.
When I started writing this blog a year ago, I think I was in search of a lesser, more manageable god, one who might help me impose orderliness on my experiences and give them more meaning than they would have otherwise deserved; if nothing else, the very act of laying down words within a rectangular space offers a visual organization that at least can hint at meaning and importance where they might not have existed.
Still, these past few weeks I have wondered about what I am adding to the world by coming here and writing, and my doubts have been fueled by something I recently read in the paper—a joke about bloggers (the definition of a blogger: someone with high self-esteem and a keyboard).